Boots Under the Bed, Not the Closet

He said it the way you'd mention traffic —

your grandfather never slept, not really, not well —

and reached across the table for the bottle,

and that was all. The table held.

Someone made a joke about the cake.

My aunt got up to look for candles.

I kept watching my uncle's hand,

the glass it filled, the way it handles

ordinary moments like he's earned them,

like the past is just a thing you clear.

He said Korea like he'd said the weather.

He left no room to ask what year,

what happened, whether the old man woke

with his heart going or just still,

whether he'd talked about it, even once,

or just kept his boots where he could feel

them in the dark, the toes against the wall —

that part I can't stop seeing.

Eighty-something years and he kept his boots

under the bed, not in the closet, like leaving

was always an option, like the body

keeps its own kind of knowing.

My uncle's already on a different story.

The candles are in. The cake is glowing.